


The Favored Knight

by allthespiceyoullwant



Series: The Lord Protector's Daughter [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 01:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8081932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthespiceyoullwant/pseuds/allthespiceyoullwant
Summary: Her time in the snakepits of King's Landing have shown Sansa how brutal and treacherous the Game of Thrones can be. But Petyr was the first one to teach her how to play it. As the tourney at the Gates of the Moon draws near, Sansa's ambition and intelligence are put to the test.





	

_the morning after Sansa stole into Petyr's solar for the first time..._

 

A knowing, wise smile curled her lips as she stepped out of the castle and into the yard, the first rays of the morning sun warm on her skin. It was a smile new to her, a smile that was deep and mysterious, a smile that whispered of secrets yet gave nothing away. It was the smile of a woman bedded.

She still felt him, somehow; not just in her heart, but in her body. Petyr had been tender, and careful, and oh, so gentle. But she still felt him. A year ago, or maybe two years ago, Alayne would have been ashamed and embarrassed now. But no, just as the thought entered her mind she realized it was not true.  _Sansa_ would have been horribly ashamed, yes. Above all, she would have felt dishonored. Alayne remembered the girl she had once been fondly. Her smile was richer now, and sadder, as the memories came back to her. She had seen Joffrey, her prince, her betrothed, promise to be merciful and then cut her father's head off. He had been cruel and mean and utterly without mercy.  _This_ was what brought dishonor, Alayne thought grimly, not what she had done last night. After the horrors she had witnessed, it was hard to feel ashamed about events that were so mundane in the grand scheme of things.

But the girl she had once been had not known these things yet. She would have cried now, and wondered what kind of man could possible love her now. The thought made Alayne chuckle softly. She thought she knew the kind.

She had not seen Petyr again since last night. They had stayed together for as long as they both dared, his arms embracing her as if he meant to shield her from all the horrors of the world. Sansa had rested her head on his chest, her fingers softly running over his skin and through his chest hair, feeling every inch of it, lazily drawing patterns, exploring it, almost piously . . . But she had never touched the scar. The Lord Protector was a man of many secrets, and his daughter wanted to leave him at least this one.

Before the break of dawn Petyr had awoken her with an apologetic smile. “I wish you did not have to go, sweetling,” he had whispered, his lips so close to hers that she felt the heat of his words on her skin. “But if someone sees you here ... especially now, with so many guests and competitors... I would not risk it.” She knew he was right; of course he was. But she still wished he would not have allowed the day to descend, that he would have found a way to make the night last forever. Somehow, with Petyr Baelish, nothing seemed impossible.

Alas, he had not. So Sansa had left the warmth of his bed, and the magic of the night, and she had put on Alayne's smallclothes, and Alayne's dress, and had run a brush through Alayne's hair, and then Alayne had quietly slipped out of her father's chambers and scurried down the empty halls of the Gates of the Moon towards her chambers.

She had hastily washed herself, trying to rid herself of the smell of the night, of any evidence what she had done in her father's chambers, and messed up her pillows so it would seem as if she had slept in her bed last night. She had summoned Gretchel to draw her a bath and scrub her clean. She had washed her hair and brushed it until it shone, and she had dressed in the finest garb she owned, a silken dress she had embroidered with the mockingbird sigil of House Baelish. She told herself she had to look beautiful for Ser Harrold. She had to make him fall in love with her. But as Alayne admired herself in the looking glass and gave her cheeks a light pinch to make them blush, she could not help but wonder if Petyr would like her attire, and felt herself worrying about Ser Harrold less and less.

She had not thought about her husband-to-be much since then, but she had not thought about Petyr either. Alayne's thoughts had wandered back to the task at hand: Find a man who would wear her favor in the lists. After she had boldly denied Harry the honor, she had to make sure she could bestow it upon someone else. He had to be young, and handsome, and from a well-known family, Alayne had decided; he would have to seem just as suitable a match for the Lord Protector's Daughter as Harry the Heir himself. She recalled the knights she had danced with last night. First there had been Ben Coldwater, but he had seemed too eager, Alayne judged. She did not want Harrold to think she had given her favor the the first man who had asked her. She had also danced with Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse, but he was only a hedge knight and would not compete in the lists, only in the melee. For a while Alayne considered Ser Albar Royce, but he was Myranda's brother and it would seem as if he only wore her favor because his sister had asked him to. Ser Roland Waynwood seemed suitable, however; Alayne liked the idea of withholding Harrold her favor and giving it to his cousin instead. But what had she thought of him when she had first seen him?  _Horsefaced and homely,_ Alayne recalled . . . could she risk giving him her favor? Would it not seem too suspicious, too obviously just a ploy to vex Harry?

Alayne sighed deeply.  _If only father was here._ Petyr would know who was worthy of her favor. But Alayne did not have time to look for him now and ask him. She pushed back her shoulders and straightened up. She would find a suitable knight to wear her favor on her own, she swore herself. And Petyr would be proud of her choice. 

In the end she chose Ser Andrew Tollett. He could not be older than three-and-twenty, Alayne judged. Ser Andrew was tall and thin, but that did not mean he was not strong. Alayne watched him from across the yard as he helped his squire ready his horse, carrying the saddle as if it weighed no more than a newborn babe. He had moved gracefully on the dance floor last night, and the same easy elegance was inherent in every step of his this morning, even after his squire had put on his armor. The polished steel shimmered silver in the sunlight, and only highlighted his awake, grey eyes. Last night he had made Alayne laugh with his dry and dark humor, and this morning it had not been any different. Her heart had beat faster than she would have liked when he asked her for her favor, but she swallowed her nervousness and promised it to him.

Fanfares filled the yard with the sound of music and interrupted her thoughts. Alayne took a deep breath to steady herself and made her way to the tourney ground. It would begin.

The stands were already crowded with spectators, common men and women, some servants trying to catch a glimpse of some of the jousts before they would hurry back to their work, friends and squires of the contesting knights who had come to cheer them on. Alayne recognized many lesser lords and ladies in the crowd as well, who had not been invited to have places of honor. In the midst of it all, a dais had been built. Lord Robert sat on the highest seat, clad in a beautiful cream colored doublet and a blue velvet cloak embroidered with the moon and falcon of his house, and next to him . . . The mere sight of him made Alayne feel dizzy. Lord Petyr was dressed in rich attire, shining black leather boots, a black velvet doublet slashed with dark green satin, around his shoulders a dark green half-cape fastened with the mockingbird brooch he so often wore. Absently Alayne's hand wandered to her own enamel mockingbird she had used to fasten her cloak with, similar to his. She had wondered whether she should wear her father's gift today, but now she knew she had made the right choice.

Petyr was leaning close to Lord Robert, whispering to the young boy, and pointing out knights and their heraldry. But as soon as she had taken a step towards the stands, he lifted his head and looked at her. In the warm rays of the sun his eyes shimmered like two pools of dark green, but that did not fool Alayne: the smiled that played on his lips did not reach his eyes, much unlike last night. She smiled back at him and garnered her skirt to be able to climb the steps to the dais, Ser Lothor Brune lending her a helping hand. He would not joust in the tourney and had been ordered to guard the Lord of the Vale today. Alayne courteously thanked him, and he gave her a warm smile in return.

“Alayne!” Lord Robert's voice was shrill and excited. “I am so glad you are here!” He flung himself into her arms, his palms sticky with sweat and the icing of the lemon cakes Petyr had provided in the box. Alayne hugged him tightly, making sure he would not ruin her dress. “It is kind of you to have me, my lord. Look at all these noble knights! They have come from far away to honor you.” Robin nodded eagerly and climbed back into his high seat.

Then, finally, Petyr addressed her. “My lovely daughter,” he announced. “You look beautiful, as ever.” He took her hands and drew her close to kiss her on both cheeks. The faint scratch of his beard stubble sent a shiver down Alayne's spine and brought back a flood of memories of last night. Before she could stop herself she heard herself sigh softly. Petyr smirked. “You seem faint, my love. Have you slept well last night?” he asked her with mock concern in his voice.

Alayne blushed as she fought back a giggle. “I have slept very well, father. Thank you.” She smiled secretively.

“I am glad to hear that,” replied Petyr softly. “Come, drink some iced wine now. The joust is about to start.”

The first four matches flew by Alayne as if in a dream. The knights were not particularly well-known, so Alayne and Sweetrobin had fun making up stories who they might be and what heroic deeds they might have already accomplished. The audience gasped when a young rider was almost unhorsed after his opponent's lance hit him full in the chest, but he somehow managed to stay on his horse and defeat his opponent in the next charge, only to then fall from his horse unconsciously. Robert was very interested in the young knight's fate and decreed the joust would not continue until he had woken up again, which he thankfully did after his squire threw a bucket of cold water in his face. Battered, but proud, the knight waved to the crowd before calling for a maester.

And then the herald cried the name Alayne had been waiting for all day. “Ser Andrew of House Tollett of the Grey Glen, against Ser Uther of House Shett of Gulltown.” Her knight appeared on the far end of the tourney grounds, looking spectacular on his chestnut brown gelding. His horse fell into a lazy trot as he boldly made his way across the field. “Harry is watching you,” Alayne heard Petyr's voice whisper next to her, but she did not dare look at the knights who had not yet jousted and were watching the other matches, to see if he was among them. She had her eyes locked on Ser Andrew.

It seemed like an eternity had passed until he had reached the dais, where Alayne sat nervously clutching her hands together. His horse came to a halt in front of her, and he lifted the visor of his helm. “My dear Alayne,” he addressed her in a loud, sure voice. Alayne was thankful he seemed to know what he was doing. She felt as if her courtesies would flee her any moment, so nervous was she. “No maiden is half as fair as you. I humbly beg you: Grant me your favor in this tourney. With a token of your affection, no foe could frighten me. I shall dedicate my victories to you, and crown you Queen of Love and Beauty if the gods see fit to let me win.”

Excited murmurs erupted in the crowd. Clearly they had all expected Alayne to give her favor to Ser Harrold, but Alayne knew a scandal could only serve her father's cause. She got up on her feet and answered. “Gallant Ser Andrew, how could any maid resist such sweet words? I would gladly grant you my favor.” Her voice was steady and loud and carried the words far across the tourney grounds.

Ser Andrew smiled and slightly bowed in thanks before he carefully lowered his lance so Alayne could reach it. She took out the silk ribbon she had embroidered with red and blue roses for the occasion and knotted it tightly around the tip of his lance. “May my favor protect you in this joust,” she called down to him. “May it steady your arm, and make you hit your mark. May it calm your horse in the sight of blood. May it inspire you to be the best knight you can be. May you win this tourney, like you have won my heart.”

The audience erupted in cheers. “Ser Andrew!” they called, “Grey Glen! Grey Glen!”, and “Alayne!” Her knight smiled at Alayne once more before he closed his visor and rode to the end of the field to ride in his first match. Alayne sat down on her chair again, her heart fluttering in her chest. She had never granted her favor to anyone before. The only tourney she had witnessed was her father's tourney, and then she had still been promised to Prince Joffrey. He had been too young to joust, and it would have been a great scandal if another knight had asked the crown prince's betrothed for her favor. But years ago, the girl she had been had made Old Nan tell her all about the great tourneys of the past and the knights who had competed in them, and she had known all the songs. The song about The Realms Delight was her favorite. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen had granted her favor to Ser Criston Cole of the Kingsguard in every tourney. Alayne had taken her answer from this song; she especially liked the part about the horse. It made her almost feel like a princess herself.

Ser Andrew unhorsed his opponent in that joust, and in the next one, too, but Alayne barely noticed what else was happening around her. She was dreaming about the songs Sansa had once loved, the songs that sung of chivalry and heroes and gallant knights who protected women and children. Sansa had learned that life was not a song soon enough, and Alayne would never forget that lesson. But here, now, it was so easy to pretend that just this one time, just for her, a song had come true.

The day's last match was the one most anticipated by the spectators: Ser Harrold's first match of the tourney. He rode onto the tourney ground, looking like a king in his shining armor. The setting sun bathed him in almost golden light. His opponent was Ser Ben Coldwater, but all the cheers belonged to the Young Falcon. Alayne did not know whether to feel nervous, or excited. Yesterday she had wished his horse would stumble, and that he would fall in the first tilt. But that thought had been on the spur of the moment; it could not be. Harrold was proud, and were he to suffer such embarrassment in the first day of the tourney...  _He would leave the Gates of the Moon tomorrow, and he would never want to be reminded of his defeat. He certainly would not want to marry me_ , Alayne thought. But he had to, or her father's plan would never be successful. So Alayne swallowed her pride. She was a bastard, after all. Bastards were brave. And so she joined her voice to the others. “Harrold! Harrold! Harrold!” The words left a bilious taste in her mouth.

Petyr was eyeing the Young Falcon intently. “He's not wearing a favor,” he finally observed. “And he has thrown an angry look at Ser Andrew when he rode past him.” A sly smile flashed over his lips. “Let's see if your betrothed can take a slight.”

Alayne was too nervous to respond.  _Please, gods, let him win._

For once, the gods were listening. Ser Ben fell from his horse in an almost graceful arc, a flash of steel and knight and broken lance, and hit the ground with an ear-shattering crash . . . but Ser Harrold was unharmed, his lance not even broken. He wheeled his horse around and trotted past the stands, waving at the crowd. The cheers were louder than any cheers of the day had been, and it was all so magical that Alayne sprang to her feet before she could stop herself, and cheered Harrold on with the rest of the spectators. Harrold bathed in the cheers of the crowd for a while and then galloped from the grounds without paying Alayne a look. Petyr seemed very pleased about this.

 

The next day the tourney continued, and the day after that, until there were only four knights left in the joust: A Sunderland of the Three Sisters (who was an excellent jouster, much to Myranda's disappointment), Ser Mychel Redford (who had been favored to win wings from the beginning), Ser Andrew Tollett, still with Alayne's favor knotted around his lance, and Ser Harrold Hardyng himself. They would all have places of high honor among Lord Robert's Brotherhood of the Winged Knights; now they were only jousting for fame and glory.

Alayne had barely slept last night in anticipation of the final matches. It seemed like hours had passed until they had all broken their fast and made their way to the tourney grounds. Lord Robert had been especially difficult this morning, and Alayne had to summon all her willpower not to smack him over the head. But now, finally, Sweetrobin sat on his high seat and eagerly clapped his hands. The last day of jousting had officially begun. “Ser Mychel of House Redfort of Redfort,” cried the herald, “against Ser Andrew of House Tollett of the Grey Glen!”

Ser Andrew had exchanged his chestnut brown gelding for a white mare. It made him look even finer. He adjusted his weight on his saddle before he touched Alayne's favor once more. He smiled at her, and then his visor slammed shut. Alayne could barely look at the events unfolding, but she could not look away either.  _Would Ser Andrew have jousted as well without my favor? He has come very far in the tourney, and might come ever farther... If only he wins this match..._

He won the match. It took him four charges, but finally he had knocked Ser Mychel off his horse. The crowd erupted in cheers when the favorite was defeated. Petyr chuckled. “I wonder how many bets were lost when your knight unhorsed Ser Mychel, my sweet. I'd wager quite a few.”

“Have you bet on any of the contestants to win?” Alayne asked her father. Petyr turned his face to her and studied her face intently before he gave answer. “No, sweetling... Not money, at least.” He turned back and left her to ponder that meaning.

The audience was still cheering, but Ser Andrew ignored the cries and, to everyone's surprise, rode towards his opponent, who was still lying on the ground. Alayne furrowed her brow, wondering what was happening. Somehow she had a feeling that something extraordinary was about to happen. “What is Ser Andrew doing?” demanded Lord Robert impatiently. “Tell them to continue the joust!  _I command it!_ ”

“Shut up!” hissed Alayne before she realized what she had said. _He will get a seizure,_ she thought frantically, _and the tourney is almost at an end..._ She forced herself to take her eyes off Ser Andrew, still riding towards Ser Mychel, and look at Lord Robert instead, who was already beginning to tremble. “Robin, you must forgive me,” she said in a soothing voice, “I did not mean it, I was just so enthralled by the tourney... They have all come to honor you, because they love you well... Please, I did not mean it...” Robin's hand began to shake violently. _Oh gods, no, it's happening..._

Suddenly Petyr spoke. “My lord, look!” He pointed at Ser Andrew, who had brought his mare to a halt next to Ser Mychel . . . and descended from his horse. It was such a surprising turn of events that Robin forgot to tremble and watched. Ser Andrew took a step towards Ser Mychel, offered him his hand, and helped him back to his feet. “You were a worthy opponent,” he declared. “It is an honor to have jousted against you, Ser Mychel.”

Robin was besides himself with excitement, his shaking fit long forgotten. “Alayne, did you see that?” he asked in a shrill voice. “Ser Andrew helped Ser Mychel up! Even though he defeated him! He has to be in my Brotherhood of Winged Knights, he has to! He has to be Lord Commander!” he decreed excitedly. “Did you see it, Alayne? Did you?”

Alayne was entranced by it all. “Yes,” she breathed softly, not caring if Robert could hear her.  _This was just like it is in the songs_ , she thought.  _ Ser _ _Andrew behaved like a true knight..._ “He was so gallant,” she whispered to herself. 

Under the loud cheers of the audience, Ser Andrew supported Ser Mychel, who seemed too weak to walk unassisted, and led him from the grounds while two squires followed them with their horses. The dirt in which Ser Mychel had lain was raked and made smooth again, and then the next match was announced: Ser Qarl Sunderland against Ser Harrold Hardyng.

Where the first match of the day had been long and thrilling, this was short and brutal. Harry was hit by Ser Qarl's lance in the first charge and stumbled from his horse, hitting his head on the fence on his way down. But just as quick he was up again, holding the part of the fence that had not been smashed for balance and opening his visor with his other hand. “He's bleeding!” exclaimed Alanye in shock. The fall seemed to have knocked one of his teeth out, and his nose looked broken, although it was hard to see much from the distance. “Someone, send him a maester!”

But the Young Falcon laughed as he removed his helm and limped to Lord Robert. “I may have lost this tourney, my lord,” he said, “but I have already won what I came for: A place among your Brotherhood of Winged Knights.” He turned to Alayne and added, “I might have won the tourney, sweet Alayne, had you granted my your favor.”

Alayne was not sure if he was mocking her. She smiled sweetly. “So you have not won  _all_ that you came for, Ser Harrold, have you?”

He seemed confused for a moment, but maybe that was just dizziness from the crash. “I guess so,” he finally grumbled. “Your favor would have made a victory sweeter, and defeat more bearable.”

Alayne fluttered her eyelashes. “Maybe next time, Ser Harrold.” Without paying him further attention she turned to Sweetrobin, and they shared a lemon cake. Alayne thought she saw a proud smile on her father's face after that, but she could not be sure.

The final match was between Ser Andrew Tollett and Ser Qarl Sunderland. Ser Andrew touched Alayne's favor once more before he charged, but this time it brought him no luck. In his second charge, Ser Qarl unhorsed her knight. Alayne watched in horror as her knight fell from his horse, his armor making a loud crunching sound, as if it was shattering all around him. With his last strength he tried to lift up his lance again and look at it, but it had shattered in the impact. Ser Andrew made a deep growl, thick with pain, and let his head fall back. His hand opened, and what remained of his lance rolled from his grip. Then he lay still. Somewhere further down the field, Alayne's favor was being swept away by the wind.

Alayne stared at the knight on the ground in disbelief. “Is he... dead?” she finally managed to squeak, her voice shaking and frightened. Gods, was it her fault? Had her favor made him too bold, risk too much? She had seen a man die during a tourney once before, yet then it had left her strangely unaffected. He had been from the Vale as well, she recalled, although she could not remember his name. She clutched her hands tightly.

“I do not think so,” assured her Petyr. “Unconscious maybe, but he should be fine again. Look, here comes maester Jesper.”

The old man hurried to the fallen knight, his grey robes swirling behind him like a maiden's skirts. He went to his knees and examined Ser Andrew. After a few moments he got up again and walked to the dais to speak to Lord Robert. “The knight is fine, my Lord. He needs rest and milk of the poppy, but he has not suffered any fatal wounds.”

Suddenly Alayne realized she had been holding her breath the entire time. She exhaled deeply. “Thank you,” she croaked. The maester nodded and hurried back to Ser Andrew, who was already stirring. And when the audience cheered his bravery, Alayne's voice was the loudest. She leapt to her feet and applauded her knight. How wonderful the tourney had turned out to be!

It took a while until the cheers had died down. Alayne was delirious with joy. Even Robin was in an excellent mood. “My Winged Knights!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Now I have eight heroes to protect me! And eight new friends!”

_More like eight poor souls who will have to suffer your antics for the next three years_ , Alayne thought, but she just smiled at the boy and said, “Yes, my lord.”

“How wonderful,” Petyr finally proclaimed. “Do you want to crown the victor now, my lord?” He gestured to the sack of ten thousand gold dragons that would be awarded to the winner. Robin eagerly jumped to his feet.

“Lord Robert of House Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East,” announced the herald, and Robin walked to the dais's parapet so the crowd below could see him. “Lord Qarl of House Sunderland of the Three Sisters!” annouced the herald once more, and the victor rode in on his grey gelding. He had taken off his helm for the occasion, and his brown hair framed his face in loose curls. He looked exhausted, but his eyes shone bright with pride as he galloped toward the dais and took a bow. Lord Robert raised his voice. “Ser Qarl,” he called down, in a surprisingly firm voice. “I declare you the victor of the Tourney at the Gates of the Moon! With this prize, I honor you.” He leaned over and handed the sack of gold to Ser Qarl, rather unceremoniously. Alayne clutched her hands together. Now came the important part. She had spent countless hours teaching Robert the right words. “I also name you a member of my Brotherhood of Winged Knights,” the boy continued. “You shall be the first among equals and serve me well. May it bring you honor and glory.”

Alayne could not help but feel proud of Robert at that moment. He had remembered his words and recited them without stuttering, and he had not had even trembled. “Well done, my lord!” she called to Robert, but her words were swallowed by the cheers of the audience who were shouting the victor's name over and over. Ser Qarl rode his horse past the crowd and waved at the spectators, blowing the maidens kisses and smiling proudly. After a while he raised a hand, and the cheers faded away. He cleared his throat. “Today has been a great honor, but no victory is sweeter than a fair maid,” he announced. Suddenly his squire appeared by his side and handed him a bouquet of red roses. Alayne heart beat faster. The crowning of the Queen of Love and Beauty! She had almost forgotten it after everything that had happened. Besides, Ser Qarl was not married, and not promised to any lady, as far as Alayne knew. Who would he crown?

And then Alayne's heart stopped entirely. Ser Qarl slowly turned his horse around and trotted into her direction. “No,” she whispered under her breath. She could barely believe what was happening.

Ser Qarl brought the horse to a halt in front of her. “Sweet lady Alayne,” he addressed her. “You have granted your favor to another, and I have knocked him off his horse in the final tilt. Will you forgive me?”

Alayne's throat was tight. She was so nervous! A thousand possible answers rushed through her head, but none of them seemed right. If only she could remember a song now, and take her words from it, like she had done when she had granted Ser Andrew his favor! But try as she might, she could not recall any song that she could draw from in this situation. But she had to say _something_. She swallowed her fear. “You rode gallantly, Ser Qarl,” she finally managed. “And you achieved this victory without false play. Your skills brought you this far, and you do not have to ask my forgiveness. It has been an honor watching you joust, ser.”

The knight smiled at her. “I could never have enjoyed my victory had you not said this, sweet Alayne. I shall forever remember this day.” He turned to Petyr. “Lord Baelish, your daughter is the fairest maid in all the Vale. Allow me to crown her Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Petyr did not seem surprised in the slightest. He studied the knight coolly for a moment before his lips curled to a smirk. “I, too, am delighted by my daughter's beauty every day, Ser Qarl,” he answered. “It would only be fitting.”

The knight nodded. “Thank you, my lord. Alayne, may I present you with these roses? I may have won the tourney, but you have won every man's heart today, I am certain.”

Alayne's heart beat so fast she feared it would spring out of her chest any moment. She rose to her feet. The four steps to the parapet seemed like the longest distance she ever had to walk. “Thank you,” she whispered, too excited to speak. “I shall forever remember this day as well.”

And then Ser Qarl crowned her. He stood up in his stirrups, and was even taller than before. Alayne leaned over the parapet, now at the same height as the knight. “No roses could ever match your beauty, but I hope you will accept them all the same,” he told her with a warm smile, and handed her the bouquet. Alayne took it with trembling hands. “Thank you,” she whispered again. The crowd had never cheered louder, but Alayne barely heard it. It was just like in the songs, she thought excitedly, and everyone loved her! All her life she had wanted the people to love her, so she could be a good and gracious ruler and a just queen. And now her dream had come true. Today, she was a Queen. Ser Qarl smiled. “I hope you will grant me a dance with you tonight, Alayne.” She nodded, though she had barely heard him. Her ears rang with sweet, victorious music.

When she turned around Petyr was smiling at her. He drew her in and kissed her on both cheeks. “You truly are a Queen,” he whispered close to her ear. Alayne felt as if she was flying. She would never be happier, she was sure. This must be absolute bliss, the most jubilant feeling on earth, nothing could be better, ever. Petyr wrapped his arms around her and spun her trough the air. Robin shouted something, but she did not hear it. All she heard were the cheers of the crowd, all she felt was pure ecstasy, all she could think of was Petyr, and that she was in his arms, and that he was spinning her through the air so high she felt she could fly.

Her head was dizzy but the time he put her back on the floor and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. “Thank you,” whispered Alayne, so low that no one else could hear. He looked at her, a sly smirk on his lips. “What did I do?”

Alayne smiled a knowing, wise smile; a smile that was deep and mysterious, that whispered of secrets yet gave nothing away. The smile of a woman bedded. “Everything.”

She did not know when she had realized that it had all been her father's doing . . . But she knew. Of course she knew.

 


End file.
